


Dawn

by moodymarshmallow



Series: My Dear Warden [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	Dawn

When they told him the story of his birth, there was always special care taken in emphasizing how difficult it was. How, despite medicine and magic, his mother had labored for a day and a half before birthing what they thought to be a stillborn child. He was small and limp and blue. According to the story, which had been embellished so much that no one could remember the first iteration, a halla escaped the pen just as the sun rose over camp. It came to the Keeper while he lay unmoving in her hands and bowed its majestic head to nudge the baby with its nose. When Theron’s eyes opened, they held fire within them. 

It was a pretty story, which probably didn’t resemble the truth in any way other than the fact that Theron wasn’t breathing when he was born. He never did find out how it really happened. The Dalish like their mysticism too much to tell him the truth. Stories, though, they loved their stories. They held explanations for everything.

The Keeper liked to say that Theron lived in the shadow space between sunset and sunrise, that because of his unique birth, he had the favor of both Elgar’nan and Mythal. She said he held council with the sun, but only before the moon slipped out of his grasp. 

It was nonsense. 

Still, Theron likes mornings. They spread slowly, with a sense of stability, yet they’re never the same. He is always up before dawn, stealing out of whatever bed or tent or pile of clothing and backpacks he slept in the night before. Sometimes he thinks that the only reason he goes to sleep is for the cool air and peace of morning. 

On good days he watches the sunrise, content with the simple joy of color spreading through the grey Ferelden sky. On really good days, Zevran shambles over to him in a state of half-awareness and haphazard dress, with none of the grace and attitude. The look on his face always suggests that nothing could be worse than waking at this hour, but he does it for Theron. Sometimes he just slumps beside him and leans, lethargic. On really, really good days, Theron is insistently dragged back to bed and smothered with sleepy affection. Inevitably, the day doesn’t start until noon, but Theron likes those mornings too. 

The Keeper had it wrong; there was nothing magical about Theron. 

But mornings—there was something special about those.


End file.
